


Go down easy

by labellementeuse



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Chicago Blackhawks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labellementeuse/pseuds/labellementeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Team USA makes Nick room with Saader during camp. Which is fine. He likes Saader.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go down easy

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to shihadchick and kathalcyon for encouraging comments as I was writing this, and to shihadchick again and hazel for giving it a proper look over before I posted. Remaining errors are my own.
> 
> Warnings: First-time sex while drunk. This fic is set at the Team USA training camp, which I could not find out a damn thing about, so I just made some stuff up. Also, I didn't get it read by an American so there may be errors in language. Feel free to hit me up in the comments if you see some.

USA Hockey is cheap and unimaginative so Nick ends up rooming with Saader at Olympic training camp. Nick’s seen enough teammates who really and truly hated each other to suspect that sticking teammates together might not always be a winning strategy but he guesses it’s fine for them: he likes Saader. Maybe too much, but it’s not like he doesn’t have practice keeping that kind of thing under wraps.

Nick’s kinda starstruck at the camp. He thinks Saader is too; he’s normally the chillest guy in the room but he’s clearly putting in a little extra effort, which makes Kaner laugh at Saader. He laughs again when Nick mumbles his way through introductions. But fuck Kaner, Nick thinks; he’s a mortal lock for the team and already has a silver medal. It’s a big fucking deal for a fifth defenseman to get asked to the freaking Team USA Olympic Camp (even if he does play for the Stanley Cup Champions, and no, since you ask, Nick’s not over that yet). 

A bunch of the big names are out doing interviews on the third night of camp, and one of the younger guys brought along his PS3 so the also-rans and probably-not-unless-someone-gets-injureds end up hanging out, getting wasted and cheerfully abusing whoever has the controller at the time. Nick ends up slumped on a couch next to Saader, half-heartedly jostling him as he races Trouba.

“Fuck off,” says Saader, shoving back, so Nick kicks a little harder until Saader tosses down his controller and attempts to wrestle him into submission. At that point, to resounding applause, Seth Jones shoves both of them off the couch and takes the controller.

“You all suck,” announces Saader from somewhere under Nick’s elbow, “And we’re leaving.” He wriggle-shoves his way out from under Nick and sticks his hand out, wiggling his fingers until Nick grabs it and lets himself be hauled upright.

“We’re leaving?” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“None of these fuckers appreciate me,” says Saader, spreading his arms.

“Get lost then, you’re blocking my view,” says Troubs, and Saader wraps his arm around Nick and drags him off.

They stumble back to their room. Saader keeps his arm around Nick’s shoulder; he should shrug it off, he knows, but fuck it. Team bonding.

“In a couple of years,” says Saader with tipsy intensity, “You and me, kid. We're going to take, fucking, where is it? Korea?”

“Pyeongchang, dumbass.” 

“Right, we're going to take Pyeongchang by fucking storm, kid.”

“Don't call me kid, kid,” says Nick, half-shrugging at Saader's arm but not too bothered when he redoubles his grip and they lurch through the door, kicking it shut behind them. They shove at each other until Saad wrestles Nick onto one of the beds, pins him down and gives a triumphant grin. 

“Gotcha, kid,” he says.

Nick sticks his hand in Saad's face, like giving him a facewash without the gloves, hoping he's been fast enough that Saader won't see his own, automatic, answering smile, not exactly the sort of thing you should come up with after being wrestled onto a bed by your rookie teammate. 

“Hey,” says Saader, mildly, kind of laughing.

“Get off, rookie,” he says, shoving with a little more effort, and Saader goes over easy, flopping down next to him on the mattress. 

“Don't call me rookie, old man,” he says, but he doesn't sound that bothered, and when Nick turns his head to the side, Saader's looking right back at him, half-smiling, half serious.

Nick licks his lips, and sees Saader's eyes dip down and back up to his eyes, and swallows. This is - this is a terrible idea, he's pretty sure of it, but Saader is right there, pressed up against his side, and he's helpless; he leans over and kisses him.

He misses just a bit, gets the side of Saader's mouth, half-stubbly, half-soft. Beneath his mouth Saader's face scrunches up into a smile, and then he tilts his head and their mouths fit together. Nick’s holding himself up over Saader, but Brandon gets a hand up between them and then he's sliding it up Nick's neck, setting his palm along Nick's jawline and getting his fingers in his hair, and then he's confidently sliding his tongue into Nick's mouth. Nick's heart is going about a million beats a minute; he can't breathe for a second and he pulls back fast, dropping his head back onto the mattress and staring at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck he's fucking doing.

“Hey,” Brandon says. “Hey, Ledpipe. Are you freaking out?”

“Nope,” he says, keeping his eyes determinedly up. “- Actually yes. Yep. A bit?”

There's a shifting sound, and then Brandon's face appears at the edge of Nick's vision. He's up on one elbow and looks pretty calm. “Well don't,” he says. “Nothing to freak out about.”

Nick lifts a hand and thumbs the stubble beside Brandon's mouth. “This is a terrible idea,” he says.

“Nah,” says Brandon, easy as, and sucks Nick's thumb into his mouth, biting it gently.

“Fuck,” Nick says, a bit unsteadily, and even if this is a bad idea, he's only fucking human.

Brandon comes off Nick's thumb with a bit of a pop and says, “Hmm, not tonight, but I could blow you.”

“I. huh?”

“I'll take that as a yes then,” Brandon says, and leans in to kiss Nick again. Nick tips his head up for the kiss and then watches, half-disbelievingly, as Brandon knee-walks his way down the bed and thumbs open the button on Nick's jeans, and then his own for good measure. “Do you want me to leave these on?”

“Uh, no.” Nick sits up a bit and wriggles out of his pants and boxers, kicking them down the bed somewhere, and shudders as Brandon gets a hand on his dick and pumps it a couple times.

“Here goes,” he says, and opens his mouth, sliding it down to where his fingers are circling the base of Nick's dick.

“Fuck,” Nick says, “Fuck, Saader - Brandon -”

Brandon flicks his eyes up, fucking winks at him, slings the wrist that's not currently _wrapped around Nick's dick_ across Nick's stomach and presses Nick's hips down onto the bed, and basically goes to town.

Nick slams his head back onto the pillow, hips bucking without him giving them any particular permission to do so, but Saader's arm is pressing him firmly into the mattress, and he can't move, stuck, pinned between the bed and Brandon's firm, wet, hot mouth.

Despite the beer, it takes Nick about a fucking minute to come, which he blames exclusively on Brandon pulling off a little, sucking gently on the head of his dick, and then deepthroating him like it's nothing. A walk in the park. He curses a couple of times and then is coming, rudely, in Saader's mouth, and Saader is _fucking swallowing_ , and at some point Nick lost control of this situation and he's not sure, sweating and gasping and staring at the ceiling, how exactly he's gonna get it back.

Saader crawls back up the bed and Nick reaches for him, tangling a hand in his hair and pulling their mouths together. It's not a kiss so much as it is a general rubbing of the faces together; Nick's panting as he tries to lick his way into Brandon's mouth and Brandon is, well, a little distracted, his dick hard against Nick's side, humping up against him in out-of-control little spasms.

Nick gets his breathing back under control and considers his options. His spine feels basically liquid and his wrist, which got chopped at in a practice a few days ago, is kind of sore. Probably not really sore enough to stop him jerking Saader off, but ... “Hey,” he says, pulling back a little from the kissing. “Wanna fuck my face?”

Saader shudders, rubs up against him twice, and comes all over Nick's thighs.

“Gross,” Nick says, and Saader, still twitching, shoves at him.

“My bad,” he says, and buries his face in Nick's shoulder, breathing hard for a minute.

Nick, despite himself, combs his fingers through Saader's hair and returns to a dedicated contemplation of the ceiling as Brandon gets his breathing under control.

“You're freaking out again,” Saader observes eventually. He lifts his head off Nick's shoulder, stretches out and hauls himself off the bed. He heads towards the bathroom, peeling his shirt off as he goes, and Nick stares, mouth half-open, at the muscles in Saad's ass flexing as he strolls into the bathroom and, judging by the sound, turns on the shower.

Nick covers his face in his arm and wonders what the hell is going on.

“Hey.” Saader's back, standing by the bed. He sticks a hand out and waggles his fingers and Nick, hopelessly, takes it for the second time that evening. Saader hauls him up, pulls Nick's shirt over his head and shoves him towards the bathroom. “Come on,” he says. “Shower. Then sleep. You can freak out in the morning.”

Saader bullies Nick into the shower and out again, then drags him towards the less-messy bed and bullies him into that, crawling in after him and wrapping himself around Nick. He presses his mouth to the back of Nick's neck briefly.

“Why am I the little spoon, rookie,” asks Nick as he passes out.

Brandon laughs, the puff of his breath sending a shiver down Nick's spine. “Just because,” he says. “Go to sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome constructive criticism in comments or via email, labellementeuse(at)gmail(dot)com.


End file.
